Sometimes I think that I shall live again; And chancing on these records of my times, I'll wonder dimly at the hidden pain Faded to quaintness in my early rhymes. And then, maybe, I shall be vaguely pleased To feel again the torture of myself; And by the ancient anguish gently eased, I shall return my own book to its shelf. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE IRISH RAPPAREES; A PEASANT BALLAD OF 1691 by CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY THE GARDEN SEAT by THOMAS HARDY TO WORDSWORTH by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE SHIPS by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE TROPHY GUNS by LEVI BISHOP KINGFISHER by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN LITTLE GOTTLIEB'S CHRISTMAS by PHOEBE CARY AN OLD PRIMA DONNA SPEAKS by HELEN WIEAND COLE ROB ROY'S REPLY TO FRANCIS OSBAL-DISTONE by LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON |